


To Die For

by nightsstarr



Series: Assassins AU [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-11-30 11:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11462298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightsstarr/pseuds/nightsstarr
Summary: Mar'i Grayson is a fierce and loyal member of the Court of Owls, and lately her path has been crossing with that of Damian al Ghul of the Assassin's League. Damian takes an interest in this vibrantly living and violent killer, sensing that there is more to her membership than meets the eye.Cross posted from my old tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic of mine that I've been itching to continue. The Court of Owls was only a thing in the New 52, and it wasn't very well done, but I'll be damned if I can't make a good AU out of a bad idea from DC. I won't be paying very much attention to actual canon lore throughout, not there's a whole lot to go on from the issues the Owls were in.

The metallic odor of blood rose in the air, adding a warm, sick tang to the wintery night. A pool of deep crimson spread over the weather-worn floor of the building. Wakes spread across the thick puddle and muffled clicking rang out as a woman in high-heeled shoes made her way across it.

The woman removed her owl-shaped helmet, shaking out her long hair as she did so. “Beat you,” she crooned into the night air where Damian al Ghul was lurking.

Since Damian’s move to Gotham for a better assessment of the “bat-family”, he’d discovered that he wasn’t the only assassin for hire. And apparently, the Court of Owls didn’t take kindly to business competition.

This was the second time this woman had beaten him to a target and murdered them brutally. And messily.

Damian dropped down and stepped back as a blood spurted freely from the wound in Sean Powers’s neck to avoid dirtying his boots.

“I’ll be waiting for my half of the money,” she informed him, smiling patiently.

“There won’t be another half,” Damian growled. “This was supposed to be a clean job.”

Mar’i lifted her shoulders in an easy shrug. “Dead’s dead. Anyway—” She lifted into the air and landed in front of him, closer than was necessarily comfortable— “I’m sure you could convince your client that our collaborative effort is worth a full price.” Lowering her bright green eyes to the decorated hilt of the sword slung around his waist, she traced her fingers over the loose tunic he wore until they touched the cool metal.

“That’s enough,” he snapped, grabbing her wrist roughly.

Her lips curled into a dangerous smile and she curled her arm close to her body, pulling Damian closer as he refused to lose all sense of dominance by letting go. She tilted her head until her mouth ghosted over his skin, her breath a warm caress against the bite of the cold night air.

“I’ll be waiting at this time in two days on Park Row,” she hummed, and his mouth itched with the desire to meet hers.

Instead he pushed her back, the soft clacking of her heels somewhat clearing the fog settling over his mind.

“There will be no meeting and certainly no exchanging of money.”

“I’ll have to make a house call, then,” she answered, in that patient tone that was beginning to drive him mad.

The thought brought as much anger as it did dry humor. The penthouse his mother had purchased some time ago under a false name was thoroughly booby trapped. And even if she were to make her way through all of that, there was no conceivable way she’d leave a fight between the two of them the victor. Damian simply couldn’t be beat.

The suggestion was disrespectful, which angered him. It reduced the Court of Owls to its mobster origins, and for a mobster to threaten an al Ghul… It made him grind his teeth.

“I dare you to try,” he spat scathingly.

She flashed her teeth in a delighted smile. “It’s a dare, then.” Slipping her helmet over her loose hair, Mar’i backed to the edge of the roof and spread her arms, dropping like it was some sort of performance.

All Damian could do was retreat before the police arrived. Perhaps dig up some hard-to-find information on the Court. And wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Firelight filled the otherwise dark penthouse bedroom with flickering orange light, shadows dancing as firewood popped.

The fire combated the cold February air well enough, but the real source of heat came from the body of the half Tamaranean as she fought to keep her hair from igniting.

The nature of her visit to Damian al Ghul’s temporary residence hadn’t been romantic, but it didn’t take long for it to turn that way.

She’d shed her Talon suit hours ago, the material of her undersuit clinging to her hips. It had been pushed down, revealing the warm skin of her stomach, her breasts covered by a sports bra, her legs also bare. Damian’s disrobing had been more complete, as he was wearing civilian clothes when she broke in, and his boxer shorts were all that remained.

She was covered in purpling marks, a combination of bruises and love bites, and Damian had fared no better, with the addition of raked lines across his back.

They moved against each other with languid slowness, enjoying the time they had, as having any time at all was completely new.

Somewhere farther in the city, a deep bell chimed four times, announcing the hour proudly.

She broke their kiss with a wet sound. “Damian,” she breathed, gathering herself.

Misinterpreting the utterance of his name, he trailed his hand up the back of her thigh and pulled her closer, pressing kisses over her jaw.

“Damian,” she said again, gently disentangling herself from his grip to lean back on her palms. “I have to go soon.”

Ignoring her, he followed her new position, leaning forward to capture her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she raked her nails against the nape of his neck before she broke away.

“I said–”

“No,” he growled, his voice gruff. He pushed her onto her back and leaned over her, his knee between her thighs, and peppered kisses across her throat. “You aren’t leaving yet.”

“Come on,” she sighed. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Begrudgingly, Damian pushed himself until he was kneeling and observed her. “I wasn’t aware you had time constraints.”

“Do you want your assassins out at all hours of the night so they can sleep with their targets?” Mar'i swung her legs over the side of the queen sized bed and picked her suit up off the floor.

“We give our members more freedom than you appear to have. There’s regulation and there’s oppression.”

His words were beginning to make her tense. She unzipped the uniform properly before sliding a leg into place.

“In fact, it really does seem foolish to go back at all.”

She frowned at him. “They’d kill me if I ditched.”

“They wouldn’t be able to if you joined another organization.”

Mar'i pulled the Nomex suit up around her hips and stared at him. “I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying. Maybe you should wait until there’s more blood in your brain than in your–”

“I don’t see what’s so ridiculous about it,” he huffed, indignant.

“You don’t see what’s so ridiculous about my joining your Assassins League just so that your booty call’s available at all hours of the day?” she demanded, annoyed, as she pulled the suit over her shoulders to slip her arms in.

“That isn’t why,” he snapped, his cheeks reddening faintly. “You’re obviously skilled enough not to die in combat against me. That’s prerequisite enough.”

“Whatever. I’m not leaving Gotham.”

Damian’s eyes followed her hand as she pulled the zipper on her suit and tucked the pull at the throat of her uniform. “What is in Gotham? Your parents are dead and the city reeks of urban decay, not to mention lowlifes and the impoverished.”

“I’m in Gotham,” she said tersely. “And I’m staying. So thanks, but no thanks.” She gathered her boots from where she’d kicked them and planted herself at the edge of his bed to lace them. “Are you gonna kiss me before I go?”

He rolled his eyes as though the idea was a stupid one, but he did end up delaying her departure for a quarter of an hour.

It wasn’t until her booted feet touched the stone ground inside the Court of Owls entrance that she realized how late she was.

The Court of Owls was located underground, and a majority of the place looked like dungeons, with stone walls, floors, and ceilings. It was difficult for Mar'i to use her powers with no real sunlight, and after several consecutive days she couldn’t use them at all.

She was in a chamber type of room, an intricate stone slab carved into the wall that Mar'i knew lifted to reveal the Court’s lair.

Biting the finger of her glove as she approached the stone, she pulled it off and rested her bare palm against the hidden sensor. The stone slab moved with a heavy, hollow sound, and she ducked under it before it was more than four feet off the ground.

A rotunda stretched in front of her, hallways cut into the stone raying out of the round clearing. Her small bedroom was located down the hallway to the far left.

Maybe March had fallen asleep–-maybe he wasn’t interested in her punctuality or he was attending to business of his own–-

As she began taking hurried steps across the open floor, she noticed a dark figure in the frame of the door which lead to Lincoln March’s study.

“Sir,” she gasped as soon as she saw him, bowing her head respectfully. “I apologize, I didn’t see you there–”

“You’re late,” the leader of the Court of Owls told her, taking a step forward.

Mar'i flinched as he took a step toward her. “Owls are nocturnal for a reason,” he told her, menace in his voice.

“I–-the sun wasn’t up yet, sir, and nobody saw me,” she defended herself as he continued taking steps toward her.

“You’re saying I’m wrong?” he demanded, and she could hear the fury I’m his voice.

“No! I’m sorry, I won’t be late again–-I’ll go without breakfast and lunch and double my training to make up for-–”

“That’s unacceptable,” March said calmly, coming to a stop in front of Mar'i. She noticed that his suit was pristine and his hair was slicked back and vaguely wondered what he’d been doing.

“You know what your punishment is.”

A spear of panic stabbed through her stomach. “Please, sir, not the coffin.” She struggled to keep her voice even and respectfully soft, but there was an unmistakable tremor of fear and she could hear the scraping of Owl claws against the stone floor.

“Please!” she shouted, and she tore off her helmet so March could see her face, hoping that an emotional appeal might sway his opinion. “Please, call back the order.”

“Sweet dreams, my young Talon,” March said, a cold smile on his lips.

As March made his way back to his office, deformed once-human owls, with beaklike faces and taloned hands and feet swarmed her. She fired starbolts, but they managed to clamp an inhibitor collar around her neck with the aid of pure numbers.

The dragged her to the room with floors of marble where the Talons slept, dead until March reanimated them with an order to kill. The Owls held her wrists so tightly that the tips of their claws braceleted her wrists in superficial cuts, digging in deeper as she struggled.

It took eight of the Owls to lift the heavy stone lid off the coffin with her name etched across the top, and in a panic she wrenched her wrist free of two Owls’ grips, creating deep gashes that cut through the Nomex of her suit. She didn’t even feel the pain, and she kicked at more that crowded her.

There were too many, even for a panicked, cornered half-Tamaranean, and they forced her into the coffin with loud shrieks from their beaklike mouths.

Once the top slid shut, she was plunged into absolute darkness. Lighting a star bolt helped calm her down, but she would run out of solar energy before March allowed her to come out of the coffin.

She hated getting locked in here. She had an aversion for death, and March exploited that better than she ever could have guessed he would.

One day she would be sleeping, just like the dozens of past Talons in the room with her.

Just like her father.

With both palms pressed against either side of the coffin, she took deep, calming breaths.

She imagined that the stone at her back was soft mattress, lined with silk sheets and a warm duvet. She remembered Damian’s mouth against her skin, her fingers in his hair.

He’d offered her a way out, and she wondered now if she should have taken it.

However, she know that to the right of her palm and two layers of stone away, her father slept, waiting to be awakened by March and his call for blood.

She wouldn’t leave, not while her father remained a half-dead slave to the Court. She would find a way to get them both out, and March’s frequent punishments only pushed her to do it faster.


End file.
